The Hoodie
by Ballerina Terminator
Summary: Contemplations on the ownership of an article of clothing.


**My dear readers,**

**I am having a rough week, so I am pleased to have this story, edited and revised, ready to post for you. I always feel better after I post, especially if you like the story! (It's because I love you so much.) Future stories are the definitely in the works in a big way, so expect more before too long. I hope to have another for you as a Chirstmas present! So, keeping this note uncharacteristically brief, I hope you enjoy the story.  
**

**Love, Ballerina Terminator  
**

The Hoodie, the fifth story in my history of Hawkeye and Black Widow

She was wearing it again. Clint knew it shouldn't be such a distraction. There was no sane reason for him to find it distracting. But it was.

After all, he reasoned to himself, it was still technically his hoodie, although at this point he had come to realize that it would probably never again hang in his closet.

It wasn't like it was special. It was just a standard issue SHIELD hoodie, much like the any organization gives out to its members for casual wear: gray, SHIELD logo printed on the back, and not much worn. It hadn't had much of a chance to be before Natasha had gotten a hold of it.

She sat now curled up like a cat in a computer chair of all things, in one of the base's various computer labs, typing up her notes on the op from which they had returned that very evening, wearing the hoodie that had been loose on him but seemed to swallow her up entirely. Her red curls, still damp from her shower, spilled into the hood. Illogically, or so it seemed to Clint, he thought that she was more attractive sitting there huddled in his sweater with her red curls still damp from her shower and hastily pulled back than when, only two hours previously, she had been dressed to the nines in heels, make-up, and jewels.

She had only ended up with the hoodie in the first place because of a training exercise that had gone horribly wrong. After all, neither Natasha nor Agent Inglehart had wanted to end up in the icy water.

* * *

It had been an unseasonably warm moonlit-night, at least for the December in the northeastern part of the United States, but that had made little difference to the agents in the three speed boats traveling up the river. The blast of frigid air that blew over the water struck them full in the face as they navigated their way inland. There hadn't been much ice in the water; certainly nothing thick enough to bother the boats as they cut paths in the glassy - and deceptively peaceful - surface ahead of them. It was, therefore, a surprise when the center boat struck a mostly submerged chunk of ice that sent the passengers flailing. Agent Inglehart, an enormously built black man who was, at the time, missing his trademark wide grin, cried out in his great booming voice as the motion from the impact dislodged one of the large cargo boxes strapped down in the stern. Due to the roar of the engine, no one heard the crack of Inglehart's leg breaking in three places as the box of expensive and - more to the point -exceedingly heavy equipment came down on his ankle, except for Natasha. She had been sitting next to him, so, as she later related to Clint, she not only heard the break but in the light of the full moon saw his foot twisted in a wholly unnatural angle when he slid over the edge.

After the jostle, Clint turned from his seat near the front of the boat to check over the crew in time to see Natasha make a grab for Inglehart's jacket; but Inglehart was a big man, and the fabric was ripped from her fingers as soon as he hit the water. Clint had been just about to instruct the pilot to turn the craft around to retrieve the man over-board when, to his confusion, Nat dove off the boat and began a furious swim back to Inglehart. Or, at least, where Inglehart was supposed to be.

He told the boat's pilot to slow and come about, and when turned back to the find Natasha's position in the water, she too had disappeared from sight. It had seemed hours before two heads broke the surface of the water, although it was probably less than sixty seconds. A few seconds later, Natasha's head disappeared underwater again. As they approached, carefully so as to not strike them with the boat, it should have been clear that Natasha was the one keeping them both afloat and that she was managing to do so with very uneven results. Clint was too irritated to notice. He could not believe that Natasha should feel the need to jump into a river after an agent who was both twice her size – the man had been a college linebacker, for heaven's sake – and an excellent swimmer. As the boat pulled alongside, two agents grabbed Inglehart under both arms. Before they were even able to haul him up, Hawkeye had pushed up his left sleeve, plunged his arm into the freezing cold water, and yanked Nat into the boat, dropping her unceremoniously onto the floor while managing to avoid the copious amounts of water that poured off of her. She gasped for air as he had glared down at her, furious.

If he had been in any mood to be honest with himself at the time, his fury was because she had scared him half to death. At that moment, he planned to yell at her until he was blue in the face for being so stupid as to dive in to a freezing river after someone who should have been perfectly capable of keeping himself afloat. He was saved from this less-than-reasonable behavior when he caught sight of Inglehart's leg for the first time as the agent was pulled into the boat alongside Natasha. At this point, Clint's brain had connected some dots that would have been connected earlier if not for his panic, and instead of lighting into Tasha, he swore under his breath and radioed Command for a helicopter lift.

After that, wet clothing necessarily had to be removed from both before hypothermia could set in, and of the jackets and sweaters offered up by sympathetic fellow agents, Natasha accepted Clint's hoodie which, to her obvious relief, came down to mid-thigh. After she changed with as much privacy as could be attained on a small water craft, she sat huddled between him and Agent Doug Mars, a man bigger than even Inglehart, with Annie Russell's jacket spread over her legs while they waited patiently for the air lift. Both she and Inglehart continued to shiver violently, despite the dry clothing.

"Nice catch, Romanoff," Inglehart had intoned in his deep bass through chattering teeth. "Cold weather to go fishing."

"I wish the fish were a little prettier," she had joked back, using shaking fingers to push icy cold hair out of her face. "I should've tossed you back, except I went through too much trouble to get you."

Inglehart had laughed appreciatively.

The whole training exercise had to be scrapped, and when Clint got back to the base, he headed for the infirmary. He found Natasha sitting cross-legged on the foot of Inglehart's bed, sipping a hot drink and chatting with a very drugged-up Inglehart, his insatiable grin returned to his face. His leg was wrapped from toe to knee. Tasha had showered and dressed in clean casual-wear, but he had been mildly surprised to see her still wearing the hoodie.

* * *

He had seen her wearing it occasionally since that night, like now as she sat staring at her computer screen, brows furrowed as she contemplated the progress of her report. He had been vaguely surprised to find that he was completely uninterested in getting the sweater back; in fact, he found himself glad that she had it and unaccountably pleased that she liked it. It was just that he found it… well, distracting.

His reverie was broken when she glanced away from her computer and up at him as he stood there, staring.

"Is something wrong?" she inquired.

He shook himself. "No, nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," she said uncertainly. "You just looked like something might be bothering you."  
"No, no," he reassured her. "I was just lost in thought for a minute."  
"Oh, all right." The corners of her mouth twitched up into the serene smile that he was so fond of, and he returned it as he sat at the computer terminal next to her and got to work on his own report, ordering himself to focus on the job at hand.


End file.
